The Diluted Thoughts of a Maybe Mind
by Watcher of the Stars
Summary: Would he go this crazy after only one week since the away mission? Maybe. He didn't know, he'd never been crazy before. Re-uploaded 2011.


**Author's Note:** So, it has come to my attention that this story was actually written over by one of my Sherlock Holmes pieces quite a while back. At the moment, I'm very tempted to compose a snarky, little rant about how frustrating can be at times. However, I've been trying to tone down my irrepressible cheek lately. It causes me to stick my foot in my mouth far too often. Nonetheless, I have re-uploaded the story upon request! Many thanks to the lovely onepiecefreec for pointing out this problem directly. Enjoy, my darlings!

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How many days had it been? Or, wait – maybe it was weeks now. Was it weeks though? Maybe. Time seemed to pass so slowly, yet at the same time it did not seem to Chekov as though he had been here for too very long. Maybe, maybe, maybe – that was all his mind said, "Maybe." The word danced around his brain in such a careless manner it was liable to knock over some furniture in there. Maybe he'd been here a week. Would he go this crazy after only one week since the away mission? Maybe. He didn't know. He'd never been crazy before.

Maybe he should open his eyes. Oh, but it hurt to even move. "Then don't move," his Maybe Mind called out. "Let's sit here in peaceful darkness. Maybe they won't hurt us again if we just don't move. Maybe it will just all go away. Maybe." But, he knew the maybe was wrong. They could come back if he moved or not. They'd beat him again. They always did.

As soon as Chekov cracked open a blood caked eye lid he regretted ever deciding to stir himself from the odd sub-conscious bliss he had been in. Now the harsh reality of his situation jolted his bones. The youth took in a shaky breath as if to brace himself as he surveyed the damage to his own body. With the heal of his wrist, he wiped away the dried blood away from his eyes. He gingerly traced the source of the wound to his forehead, wincing at the tips of his finger grazed the open flesh.

He still remembered how he came to be in this cold metal cell. He remembered that he wasn't even suppose to be on that away mission. Ensign Riley had been sick, and Chekov happily offered to take his place. He didn't even know what had gone wrong in negotiations, but he did know that when the Captain and Commander Spock come galloping out of the parliament chamber with phasers in hand, you don't ask questions - you just go.

He remembered turning around to look back - for that was when he had fallen. He remembered how Commander Spock had yelled the a yeoman to keep running when the red-shirted man reached out to aid him. Chekov had made a wild, flailing grasp for the yeoman's hand, missing it by inches.

But he also remembered the torn panic in Spock's human eyes as the Vulcan took one last glance back at Chekov, before those hands had taken the Russian away. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.

Remembering caused his injured head hurt worse. Pulling himself off the floor, he scooted over to the wall and leaned against it gently. It was cool and smoothing to his aching skin. He figured his wrist was broken and that his collar bone was in an equal state. With the pain from his assorted fractures, gashed forehead, and the bruises and cuts that peppered his body, it seemed all that was physical had been shattered.

Had they fed him at all? Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe – no. No, don't start that again. "Stay awake," he whispered to himself. He was surprised to hear his own voice sounded so hoarse and weak, but continued talking, "Must find a way bak to the ship. Stay awake, stay..." But try as he might to withstand it, the darkness claimed him once more.

–

Was it morning? Maybe. Or maybe it was just the same day it was before. And then the gravity of his injuries shoot through him. He jerked awake to rivets of pain running down through his spine, shoulder, and the length of his arm. He bit down hard on his tongue in order to quell the scream that was swelling in his chest.

He quickly decided his shattered wrist and collar bone could no longer be ignored. Reaching down tentatively, he grasped the hem of his yellow uniform. He stopped to take a shaky breath, fully knowing that struggling out of his shirt would be excruciating. He meticulously stripped his shirt from his body, trying to not upset his broken wrist, but there was only so much he could do.

As soon as the shirt was off, his exclamation was sprinkled with a pinch of laughter of relief, "Spesiba bog (Thank God)!"

Over the next several minutes, Chekov crafted his uniform shirt into a sling. He was very proud of the end product, considering the only medical training he had was the basic course every cadet received upon entering Starfleet. He settled back against cool wall.

Was Starfleet coming back for him? Maybe. But maybe not. What if the answer was maybe not? Then he could die here. At this thought Chekov brought his legs up to his chest and placed his chin upon his knees, suddenly feeling empty and very alone.

Commander Spock would argue that going back for Chekov was not logical, which was very true. He would like to believe that Captain Kirk would fight for his rescue, but maybe not. Sulu and Uhura would care, but not enough infringe on command. Scotty would have a fit. He and Chekov had become close within the past months. Having lunch together and talking of physics and warp theory was the highlight of his day.

Chekov shook his head as he thought of Scotty's possible reaction to the verdict of leaving him behind. The Scotsman would go storming up to the bridge, disregarding rank, and tear into the entire bridge crew. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Scotty's reaction would be much different. He would just stand there, shocked at the news. He would blink away hardwater tears, trying to deny their existence. And then after, down a bottle of whiskey.

Maybe he should stop thinking of such disheartening things. Maybe some more sleep? He couldn't believe how tired he had become by just wiggling around and making a sling. So tired. Maybe sleep was a good idea – maybe, maybe, maybe...

Chekov jolted awake at the sound of the electric gate of his cell shutting off with a loud snap. His dilated eyes jerked upwards and met with the dark, black, nothingness pupils of the species of the planet. They were long, slender people; sinuous, but strong. They were smooth, not a hair upon their pale azure bodies. There were beautiful, yet simultaneously terrifying.

As one of the long creatures reached for him, Chekov pushed himself upwards with his knees, sliding his back against the wall to keep his balance in an effort to stand up and face his soon-be attacker. The alien made an odd growling sound at him, as if it were laughing at his attempt to make a stand. The boy glared back with all the exhausted defiance he could muster. He knew the fight would not last long. His body was stretched, tired and fragmented. It could take no more.

The creature lurched forward. With some sort of green-tented, metal rod, it struck the navigator square in the solar plexus, winding him immediately. Chekov barely had time to double over with a hacking cough before the rod caught the side of his head with a hard blow. He staggered against the wall, holding his battered head with his good arm. Again the rod struck, this time it crashed against his broken collar bone. Finally gaining his breathe back, he let out a animalistic cry of pain.

It was too much. Again and again the rod came down, all the creature staring blankly at him. His mind began shut off as he fell to the floor. Black clouded his vision. Maybe this was the end? Maybe, maybe, maybe? Stay wake. Don't let the darkness take you. What was that noise? Was the the creature making that noise of pain? Why did the beating suddenly stop? Maybe he was dead. Maybe. Stay awake. Maybe. Stay awake. Maybe they had come. But maybe not. Stay awake. Maybe.

He heard voices. They weren't his own either. They also sounded like they were very far off, as if they were coming to him through a tunnel. He felt warm, tucked away. The pain was only a dull ache now. He felt his fingers grasp soft fabric, and, barely cracking his eyes open, he realized all he could see was dark blue. How nice. Where ever he was, he liked this place, it felt safe here.

"Mr. Scott, please step back from the transporter pad so that I may take Ensign Chekov to medical bay. You are obscuring the path," as the muffled voice spoke he felt whatever he was pressed against rumble softly.

"I know, but I jus' 'ad ta see if the lad was alright. I cannae think 'e would kick off. 'e alright? I just-"

Chekov knew that Scottish accent

"The Ensign is alive, however it is imperative that he be the recipient of Dr. McCoy's expertise within the next few moments," and with that Chekov felt moving under him, as if he were now floating somewhere. Where was he? The Enterprise? Maybe this was a dream. He couldn't be here. But...maybe it wasn't... maybe, maybe, maybe...

"Aye, I figured as much, 'e's a tough one. It's just nice ta know the lad is home."

Home? Yes, he was home. They had come back for him, and there was no maybe about that one. Not even his diluted, maybe mind could convince him otherwise.

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